Fierte Dedans
by Saboteuse
Summary: Fierté dedans," French for "pride within." Among the Mole's dying words. But thanks to Kenny, he's alive, a teenager, and entangled between the affections of Kyle and Gregory. Slash.
1. A Day in the Life of the Mole

_I reformatted this chapter and submitted an (unfinished) chapter two.  
It will be Gregory/Mole, warning to Kyle/Christophe shippers. I have a plot planned out, I swear...  
Hope you like it :)_

Fierté Dedans 

It was lunch period, and the Mole was outside the school building smoking a cigarette. His murky dark green eyes took in the scene with distasteful misery. The sky was icy turquoise and the sun was shining off the dazzling white mountain peaks, but the Mole hated it all. Was he the only one who saw through the illusion? His bushy brown eyebrows contracted in fierce contemplation as he took a pensive drag on the cigarette, exhaled, and then watched the smoke dissipate into nothingness, just as he knew he would someday. Become one with everything. He hated that happy-go-lucky zen shit, but part of him thought it sounded nice.

He glanced around the brick façade of South Park High, glad that today he was alone. Gladness, for the Mole, meant an absence of searing choler. He hated social smoking with a vengeance.

Suddenly the bell rang, and he sighed bitterly, tossing the smoke onto the ground and grinding it out with his shoe. "Sheeet!" he muttered angrily. He grabbed a fistful of blackish-green shirt and sniffed; it was smoke-infused. He smiled. Smelling like smoke was usually a guarantee that people wouldn't get too close. He quickly hoisted higher on his left shoulder the leather baldric, which had been slipping. The comforting weight of the smallish shovel the baldric held in place would always continue to be there, so the Mole thought. Resignedly, he entered the school and started towards his locker.

"Hey, Frenchie boy, why do you carry that shovel around so much?" The boy's stupid singsong pierced obnoxiously through the Mole's temporary peace. _Fool!_ thought the Mole. _One of the ones who has not yet learned that the best course is to respect me._ He rather tersely flipped him off and continued on his way. He didn't look back, and found he didn't have to; he was not pursued. _Stupid shits. God, I need a cigarette. _Automatically, he reached into the depths of his pocket, where he knew they were waiting; he withdrew his hand again, realizing there was no point whatsoever. The end-of-passing bell rang at that moment, causing the Mole to curse. He didn't give a damn about school, really, but he hated being late. He didn't like the embarassment, the way you were treated like a delinquent on your arrival, but it was more than that–he imposed a lot of rigid standards on himself, and punctuality was one of them.

The halls were quiet and devoid of the students who gave the Mole hell (before their heads became intimately acquainted with dirt-encrusted steel); they had all scurried off to class. He ran down the hallway, the weight of his shovel occasionally causing him to overbalance and nearly fall. He arrived, panting, at his locker, and hastily did the combination. He dragged out his Biology books and slammed the locker shut, before spinning it to re-lock. He turned and ran all the way to class, his leather ankle boots echoing down the dark hallways suffused with dim fluorescence.

He opened the door quietly and stepped inside. Good. A sub. Perhaps he would not be marked late. He snuck past the desk and found an island seat surrounded by empty desks. Sighing, he folded himself into it and rested his arms on his textbook. He focused his eyes on his laced fingers, then peeled the black fingerless gloves off and on again. They were excellent for gripping a shovel; his dexterity was not compromised, and his palms were protected from blisters.

The substitute, panic showing itself in his young, inexperienced face, finally began taking attendance.

"Craig Adams?"

A black-haired boy leaning catlike in his chair, Craig raised his hand lazily.

"Kyle Brof-Broflovski?"

Not looking up from his book, Kyle wound tightly curled auburn around his fingers and answered absentmindedly. "Here..."

"Chr-Christophe Delorne?"

The Mole flicked his eyes upward. "Here."

_I really, really need a cigarette._

_Fucking chain-smoker! You weak bastard!_

The internal verbal battering had begun.

_I'm not weak, damn it! I'm strong!_

_Yeah, only when you've got your cigarettes on hand, right, Christophe?_

_I'm not Christophe! Shit! I'm the Mole! I hate that fucking religious __name!_

"Clyde Donovan?"

A pudgy brunette responded with an assertion that he was present.

_Shit, how long's this gonna take?_

He tugged impatiently on a piece of dark chestnut hair. It was messy and slightly spiky, gravity-defying almost, and the Mole regarded it less as a part of him and more as a stress ball to take his discomforts out on.

Just then the door clicked open and a willowy boy strode into the room with his books under his arm. He stopped short at the desk and announced, "Sorry. I was using the facilities; I'm not too late, am I?" The voice was full-bodied and theatrical, with a hint of a British accent.

"And you are?" asked the substitute, trembling a bit with the uncertainty of it all.

"Gregory," replied the boy, straightening his shoulders and sweeping his voluminous golden hair behind his ears. "Gregory Palton." He leaned forward intently and placed his fingers on the edge of the desk. The substitute looked up in trepidation into a pair of pale green eyes. The eyes blinked, and above them a pair of flaxen eyebrows raised slightly. Prodded into action, the substitute glanced quickly down at the attendance sheet. "No, you're good to go, we're still in the D's..."

"Splendid," said Gregory pompously, and found a seat directly next to the Mole. Unloading his books in an expert manner upon his desk, he gave the Mole a friendly look. "Hullo, Mole."

The Mole slowly moved his eyes onto Gregory's face. "Yeah, 'ello." He scowled and looked down at his gloved hands.

Gregory's eyebrows formed themselves into an attitude of displeasure. "You needn't keep up that world-weary demeanor with me; we've worked together, you know."

"Yes, yes." The Mole waved his hand angrily. "Eet is not you, eet is evairyzing else; I need to smoke vairy badly right now."

Gregory relaxed, then frowned again. "You know you oughtn't do that! The moment you stub it out, in goes another one! If it weren't for no-smoking rules in school..."

They kept their conversation to a low volume, just below the perception of the louder students, and the softer ones too; Kyle could hear _everything._ And he did, this time. He often eavesdropped on the Mole. He was fascinated by the young expert in covert operations, the French mercenary for hire who could do amazing things with a shovel. Kyle had grieved, perhaps more than the others, at the Mole's temporary death; he often felt strange when he thought about Christophe. He flushed and buried his freckled nose in his book.

Wendy Testaburger was last to be called. Stan, mercifully, was not in the class; that made one less occasion for mutual pining. There was no energy between Wendy and Gregory, save the occasional frigid chemical reaction between their glances. A remark like _No dude, fuck Gregory! Fuck him right in the ear!_ was enough to cause a grudge that would last for years.

"All right, open up your books to page 267..." the substitute said.

The Mole watched, half-amused, as Gregory made it there in one page-thumbing; it was bookmarked. All of the chapter beginnings in Gregory's book were marked with little numbered paper flags. The Mole shook his head and leafed through his own book much less efficiently until he reached the page marked _Asexual Reproduction in Plants._ Glossy, full-color photographs of daisies greeted his eyes. Excessive cheerfulness, eye candy. He hated the textbook industry for doing this to him. He liked subterranean dirt at night. He liked hard work and justice. He hated this. He gritted his teeth and read along.

"Mole?"  
It was Gregory.  
The Mole made a questioning sound.  
"Are you very busy?"  
The Mole looked up. "No, not so vairy..."  
"I think I have a mission for you."  
"I'll do eet pro bono," said the Mole.

Kyle looked over, looked back at his book, and listened.

The Mole emerged from the tunnel and found himself in a small dirt-covered area behind the building. He was just about to begin a new one that would lead inside when he was blasted in the face with a flashlight beam. Startled, he cried out and the cigarette fell from his mouth. He let out a panicked "Sheet!" and dove back into his tunnel, grabbing up his shovel. But it was too late; three men seized him by the baldric and arms. He took a swing at them with his shovel, only to have it wrested from him. "My shovel! You bitches!" he yelled at them, before his conscious state abruptly came to a temporary end.

He woke to find himself in a spare, dimly lighted room with three concrete walls and one brick. His head hurt like hell, and his arms were tied with his own rope. "Oh, _fuck_..." He'd never been caught before. Well, yes, he'd been mauled to death by guard dogs in his own tunnel (only Kenny's wish had saved him), but never _captured_. Trapped. He possessed sharp wits, and so tried to convince himself that he'd be able to get out of this one if he used them. He was lying slumped against the brick wall, and thought it would probably be a good idea to get up before they came. The trouble with doing illegal work was that you were dealt with illegally. The Mole was moralistic, however--he couldn't be caught doing something truly wrong. He was a rescuer. He wasn't afraid of death, but he didn't want to die like this. A failed mission, just like before.

It was difficult, but he managed to get to his feet. He noticed that his shovel was propped against the wall. He was still wearing his baldric, too. If he could just get untied--if he could get free--he could dig through wooden floorboards, he'd be able to get away--

The thick wooden door clicked open, and the Mole jumped. It was a tall, wiry man who had a head of greasy blond hair and a sinister smile. He shut the door completely without bothering to lock it.

"Hello, young friend."

The Mole narrowed his eyes and said nothing.

"You'll see we kept your shovel for you. Not that you'll get to use it, of course."

The Mole stayed quiet.

"Oh, don't be like that. Cigarette?" He removed a pack of them from his jacket.

The Mole flicked his green eyes askance. "Sure." _Shit, I could really use one._

"You can talk with a cig in your mouth, can't you? We'll need you to talk."

"Of course I can." The Mole scowled. _That doesn't mean I will._ He moved his wrists, which  
were tied behind him, experimentally. The rest of the rope, which was wrapped around him and trapped his arms, was cutting off his circulation a bit. He wished he'd rolled down his sleeves. His wrists didn't hurt very much, thanks to his gloves. There was a little bit of give, but not much. That was to be expected, though. He liked to use strong rope for his missions. _This is fucking ironic._

"Gooood," the man replied cheerfully, watching his movements. The Mole had tried to be subtle, but apparently he wasn't subtle enough because the man said, "Oh, don't bother trying to escape."

The Mole froze and glared at him, his thick eyebrows framing his eyes, angry and intense.

"Just answer my questions, and nobody gets hurt," the man continued.

"Ze fuck I won't get 'urt!" the Mole retorted hotly. _Does he think I'm an idiot?_

The man sneered and thrust one of the cigarettes toward him. The Mole recoiled, then stood still as the cigarette was stuck in his mouth and lit. He took a drag and felt calmer. Exhaling nasally, he realized that he might be able to escape using the cigarette. He could drop it, sit down, pick it up, and try to burn through the rope. But he couldn't do it with this guy around.

"Okeedokee," the man said. "Now, how many more of you are there?"

"Zere aren't any more. I am ze only one."

The man cocked an eyebrow. "Yesss...now, you'll have to open up a bit more with me, or else I won't be so nice."

The Mole glared angrily at him. "I'm telling you, eet's just me!"

"Wellll, then who sent you?"

_I can't talk. I don't sell people out._ "I sent myself."

"You're going to have to stop lying," the man said threateningly, taking a quick step towards the Mole, who edged back reflexively. "_Who is there besides you?_"

The Mole took a deep breath, calmed himself, and, trying to keep the fear out of his voice, said, "No one. I'm telling ze truth."

The man socked him in the face. The Mole cried out, then squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the pain to recede, trying to be stoic, not wanting to give him the satisfaction...he felt his nose start to bleed, with nothing to stem the flow. He opened his eyes and a rosy flush rushed to two spots in his cheeks, and he gritted his teeth with rage. The man laughed as the Mole struggled furiously, wanting badly to hit him back.

As blood dripped onto the Mole's collar, the man said, "Let's try that again. _Who's with you?_ I know there are others, you little French rat!"

"Fuck you!" the Mole yelled, and spat the cigarette at him.

The man's face contorted and he swung his fist back again-

All of a sudden the door burst open and someone rushed in, a blur of orange and green, and knocked the man to the floor. He fell hard with a surprised cry and before he could get up, the assailant straddled him and punched him in the face. It was Kyle.

"_Kyle!"_ The Mole gasped, registering who it was and utterly shocked at what he was seeing. "How--what are you doing here?" Kyle didn't respond, probably because he was too busy trying to incapacitate the man, who was definitely much too strong for him.

"Ze shovel! Get ze shovel!" the Mole yelled, panicking at the thought of harm coming to Kyle for his sake. Kyle leapt up and got the shovel. He was grabbing it much too close to the blade, the Mole thought; he would have told him to hold it farther up for maximum leverage, but there was no time. He winced as the blade connected with the man's skull. The Mole hoped he wasn't too badly hurt; murder was bad. Still, he didn't have much sympathy for the man who now lay on the floor, out cold. Kyle brushed red hair out of his eyes, hat askew and clear brown eyes bright. He set the shovel down and ran to the Mole.

"You're...hurt!" Kyle panted, upset. "Who...did this...to you?" His eyes took in the blood on his face, his green shirt, his boots. "Oh my God!"

"God?" The Mole returned darkly. " 'e doesn't care about-"

"Here." Kyle tugged at the knots until the ropes loosened, and the Mole hurriedly pulled free of them. He rubbed his arms, which had deep red marks on them, before cleaning his face with his shirt. His nose was still bleeding, but there was nothing he could do about that.

"Thanks-"

"We have to get out of here!"

"Yes, I'm sure I didn't know zat!" said the Mole said drily.

"And we can't go out that door!" Kyle cried. "They'll know-"

The Mole tugged on Kyle's jacket. "Yes, yes! Follow me, quickly!" He replaced the still-burning cigarette in his mouth, then picked up his shovel and within seconds had tunneled several feet into the floor. Kyle followed him inside and soon they were underground.

"This is just like old times..." came Kyle's voice from behind. The Mole stopped digging for a moment and peered at him, then resumed.

"What do you mean?" he asked, between shovelfuls of dirt.

"The USO show...you know...tunnels...I...you wouldn't have known, but I cursed at your death...I won't forgive Cartman for that, ever..."

The Mole heard a sniffle. He looked over his shoulder at Kyle. Even in the less-than half-light he could see the shape of the boy, sad, wiping away tears. _What a weird kid._ The Mole felt an odd sensation in the pit of his stomach. "Yeah, I fucking hate guard dogs! That wasn't ze way I would 'ave chosen to die..." he laughed darkly, "but it wasn't your fault. Cartman was supposed to shut off ze alarm." _I can't believe I'm having a conversation,_ he thought. _We should be conserving oxygen, both of us._ He heard another sniff and sighed as he dug his way forward. He was able to judge distance acutely, and when a short while later he stopped to surface and see where he was, he found he was directly outside-- not far from his first hole. "Come on," he said, clambering out and and entering his old tunnel. After reattaching his shovel to his baldric, he scrambled through, Kyle at his heels. When he and Kyle resurfaced, they were on the safe side of the barbed-wire fence that surrounded the premises. They paused to catch their breath.

"'ow did you know I was 'ere?" The Mole asked, and took a satisfied drag on his cigarette.

"Gregory," Kyle replied, without hesitation. "I...I overheard you guys--" he flinched-- "And then I got out of Gregory the exact location. I...I don't know why I came...I..." A flush appeared on his pale, high-cheekboned face. "When I got out of the tunnel, I saw footsteps leading away from it...in the snow...yours, and then other people's...and yours disappeared, and then seemed to be dragged...it was suspicious...I could tell they were yours because I recognized the treads..." he faltered again, blushing deeper. "So I found the entrance to the building, and then I heard your voice, and I, I just went in." His dark eyes rested on the Mole's bloodied face. He pulled off one of his lime-green gloves and handed it to the Mole. "Staunch the blood with this." His red eyebrows contracted angrily. "Who the fuck did that?" he said fiercely.

Nonplussed, the Mole took the glove and pinched his nose with it. "You knocked 'im out," he said, in a not un-congratulatory manner.

"Why? Why did he do that!" Kyle demanded.

The Mole smiled wanly at Kyle's indignation. "Interrogation," he replied, and took another drag on his cigarette.

"You mean torture!"

The Mole waved his free hand dismissively.

"Oh, don't be all tough and grandiose, like you've seen in it all before!" Kyle cried passionately. "They were going to kill you, weren't they! They would!"

"Ah, you don't even know who 'zey' are," the Mole said brusquely, and regretted it. "I'm sorry! Really! Thank you, I would 'ave been done for wizout you, I-" he stopped, alarmed at Kyle's expression. Kyle's red eyelashes blinked and tears trickled down his cheeks, large droplets clinging to his pale skin, luminous in the moonlight. Even in the dark the Mole was acutely observant of every detail, and he saw the tears, and how they magnified his freckles. He removed the glove from his nose, and discovered that the bleeding had stopped. He placed the green glove gently in his pocket, not caring if he bloodied his worn brown pants. Kyle continued to watch him silently, and the tears continued to fall.

The Mole placed his hand on Kyle's shoulder. "Don't cry, Kyle–why–"

Kyle roughly wiped his eyes with his hands, one green and one bare.

"I don't want you to _die!_" he said fervently, his voice shaking with glottal stops the way the human voice does during a bout of crying or laughter. "I _love_ you."

The Mole opened his mouth, and the cigarette fell out. Not noticing, he closed it again. "So zat's why you came," was all he could think to say. For a moment he wondered what it was like to be in Kyle's embrace--was it warm? Passionate? And then he remembered that he had been in Kyle's arms before--when he had died. He had requested it.

He patted Kyle's shoulder, and Kyle flung his arms around him. The Mole stumbled in surprise and nearly fell, then stood petrified as Kyle's body heat melted into him and his curly hair grazed his cheek.

"I...didn't know you felt like zat," he said, and patted Kyle's back mechanically. His shoulder felt wet.

Kyle took an agonized deep breath and wept, "I do! I don't k-know how y-you f-feel, b-but I do, I love you!"

The Mole was not used to this, but he didn't feel the desire to push Kyle away. He didn't resent Kyle the way he did most of the others; he was so far past the wish for friendship that he had never even stopped to realize that Kyle had never given him reason for disenchantment.

_I've never needed anybody. I don't need anybody. I never will...  
__But what if he needs you?_

He continued to palm the spot between Kyle's shoulderblades. He could feel the warmth and solidity of his body right through the winter jacket so soft to the touch. Kyle's frame felt so tensed, to the Mole's hands. The spasms of sobbing that made Kyle's shoulders shake began to recede, and he slowly became placidly limp. Lifting his hands from their position crossed upon his arms, wrapped around the Mole's neck, Kyle took a breath and restored his waterlogged vision with the aid of his fingers.

"Oh God–I'm sorry–I have no idea what you must think of me–this right now." He drew back and gazed woefully into the Mole's face with dolor-rinsed eyes. "A _boy_ going for you, you know. But it's so much better and more than that–I love _Christophe_, not just his body–although you're sublime..." He smiled tremulously. "I guess I've loved you for years now, I told myself it was just a crush, but it was tonight–realizing I could lose you again–I had to, I had to let you know, that you are so much more precious to me...than I...than I could ever find the words to express." A look of anguish crossed his fine-featured face. "And I know it may be impossible for you to love me." Cringing with sorrow, he turned away. The Mole saw his hands go up to his face and his shoulders begin to shake again.

Reaching forward quickly, he gently grasped the moon-paled hand, and Kyle opened his eyes to see his wrist clutched in strong black-clad fingers.

"You love...?" Kyle said breathlessly, hardly daring to infuse his words with hope.

The Mole squeezed the naked hand and brought up his other to cup it. "Eet...eet 'as been so long since I cared about..._anyone_...I don't zink I 'ave ever loved anyone before. Not even my muzzer; I am pretty sure zat she 'ates me, actually. Oh, she pretends in front of uzzer people, but...but I don't give a fuck, I don't care, I don't need 'er fucking love! I'm not liked zose other bitches, I don't care zat you are a boy...eet's just zat I've nevair liked anyone! I don't even _know_ what I want!...sheet..." he degenerated into muttered French, something he seldom did.

"I know your life is miserable, Mole, I want to make it better," Kyle said ardently. He clasped one of the Mole's wrists in his free hand. Their eyes met, warm brown and cold green, with only chill darkness in between them.

"But 'ow can you do zat?" asked the Mole uncertainly.

"Because..." Kyle said, and rested his cheek on the Mole's shoulder.

The Mole felt shivers down his spine. Taking a deep breath, he leaned into Kyle and felt a happy sigh envelop the boy's thin frame.

_I must smell terrible...this shirt has the scent of a thousand cigarettes...why doesn't he care?_

"Will you give me a chance?" asked Kyle at last, lifting his head from the Mole's shoulder.

The Mole felt his face grow hot and he quickly stood up straight. He looked down at the ground, where the cigarette was burning itself into ash, and depressed it with the sole of his boot. Suddenly, he became acutely conscious of the death grip Kyle's fingers had on his wrist. Gently unfurling the clinging hand from around his chafed arm, he placed his hands stolidly, yet lightly, upon Kyle's shoulders.

Looking deeply into Kyle's face,  
_He's beautiful,_  
he saw, past the pallor, the freckles, the unruly auburn locks,  
_but_  
that the dark amber eyes contained pain in their pellucid depths,  
_can I love him? Do  
_and Kyle's heart was deeply troubled.  
_I even want to love him?  
I'm not ready for this.  
Maybe...  
Maybe it could be like friendship, just deeper.  
Do I even want to love him?  
Yes.  
Yes, I do._

"Very well."  
The words sounded so cold and formal to the Mole's ears once he'd said them, but he found nothing but innocent jubilation in Kyle's face.  
"I love you, Mole."

_I can learn, Kyle.  
I can learn._


	2. Worthless Boy

They sat on the ground for a long time, holding each other, being in one another's space. There was a silence. 

The Mole looked at his watch and felt a spike of adrenaline.

"I have to go."

"Why?" asked Kyle, tensing again.

"I told Gregory zat I would call 'im when I was finished." He looked anxiously at the building that lay on the other side of the barbed wire fence. "Eet's only a matter of time before zey find zat guy on ze floor, and zen zey'll notice ze tunnels...we've got to get out of 'ere." He grimaced. "Even zough I will 'ave nothing good to report to 'im. Ze mission was not successful, but eet's not over yet!" He clenched his hand into a fist. "No, not by far! I just need to be more prepared when I make my second attempt..."

Kyle looked intently at him.  
"What...what exactly is the mission about?"

The Mole's eyes snapped back to him. "I can't talk about eet 'ere! Look, look, I've got to go, I'll see you...I'll see you in school tomorrow." _Fuck, fuck, now I'm putting him in danger too...oh, I'm a genius..._

"Yeah, see you tomorrow..." Kyle replied, smile overflowing its bounds like a river of happiness bursting a dam.

The Mole's heart palpitated at the sight of that smile. _Am I charmed that easily? Why doesn't any of this bother me?  
Because he saved your life, you stupid asshole,_ came the internal answer. _And because he's not a jerk.  
__And because you've been in his arms_.  
He turned to go.

"And Mole?"  
A crystalline voice reached the Mole's ears from behind.

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

"For what?" asked the Mole, his heart quickening again.

"For giving me a chance."

The Mole looked behind him and saw a lean figure framed by the moonwashed sky.

"Don't mention eet. Thank _you_...for...saving my life."

The Mole reached Number 810, 4th St.with his head still spinning from the night's events. What had just transpired still seemed surreal, despite the amount of rumination he'd been able to devote to the topic during his walk home. He glanced at his watch again; it read 22:45 hours–10:45. Creeping around the side of the muddy-orange brick, he entered the backyard and retrieved his housekey from within his boot. As quietly as he could, he let himself into the kitchen and was about to head for his first-floor bedroom when, for the second time that night, he was blinded by a very bright light.

He froze, blinking, and saw his mother sitting at the kitchen table with her hand at the light switch. A bottle of bourbon lay nearby, and it was three-quarters empty.

"Oh, shit..." he said to himself.

"Where have you been, Christophe?" she asked slowly, her voice sharp and dangerous despite a slight slurring of the French words.

"You've been drinking again," the Mole said in disgust. He made a reach for the bottle but she dragged it away across the table.

"You're my son, you'll do as you're told," she said condescendingly. Her haggard face, framed by limp brunette locks and a pair of gold hoops, was frightening in its alcohol-induced glow. "Now answer me, you worthless boy! Where have you been? It's almost eleven o'clock, and you disappeared after dinner!"

"I've been out, do I have to go into detail?"

The Mole winced as his mother's tea-colored eyes swept his face, and her lip curled.

"You've been out doing–_that!_ Why do you have a bloody nose? And you're wearing that damned shovel!"

"I was at a friend's hou-"

"What a crock of shit! You don't have any friends! You're a _criminal!_"

_I wish they could all see her now, her church friends–they wouldn't think her so godly now–_

"I'm not a fucking criminal!" he yelled, losing his cool. He watched helplessly as she downed a few more gulps of the amber drink.

"Yes you are! You piece of shit! You're the reason my life was ruined, and Alain left me..." she took another swig and seethed, "I tried to stop you but it didn't work..."

The Mole's heart was not rent into pieces like it was the first time his mother had told him these things while she was drunk; it had happened enough that, over the years, scar tissue had formed.

"That's not my problem! That's not my fault! And I don't think God gets off on you, either! What this fuck's with this religiosity! You're a bitch and God's a bitch too!"

His mother's hand twitched. "You are grounded for a month! How dare you talk about Our Father like that, you good-for-nothing-"

A flush was seeping into the Mole's cheeks again, and the cloudiness in his eyes seemed cancelled by a sharp, fiery clarity. He hardly seemed to choose his words as he spoke.  
"You want good-for-nothing? _You want good-for-nothing!_ I'll give you good-for-nothing! I'll give you someone who pretends to be a good person, but who's so fucking rotten inside! I hate my life! I've tried to make something of myself! You-"

He was cut off by a powerful backhanded slap. He gasped in pain, and she hit him again and again. He grabbed her wrists and managed to hold on for a moment, but she wrenched them away and struck him across the jaw.

"Mother, stop it!" he cried, his eyes fast filling with hot tears. He clenched his teeth and tried to press away the pain with the pressure of his hands. In answer she sank her fingernails into his shoulder. He gritted his teeth and pulled his shovel from the two loops back of his baldric. "Leave–me–_alone_."

She regarded the teenaged boy desperately gripping his shovel for a moment, as though determining a course of action; sneering, she seated herself again and pressed her painted lips to the bottle's rim.

The Mole stormed out, snatching up the cordless phone on the way to his room. He locked the door, kicked off the sturdy boots, and flopped on his bed.

He'd never felt so exhausted.

He pulled off his baldric and dropped it on the floor with a clang, where it lay next to a few spare coils of rope and a Swiss army knife.  
Brushing dirt off of his mattress, he rolled onto his side and dialed Gregory's number. He quickly lit a cigarette with items furnished from the depths of his pocket. _Kyle's glove is still in there. I've got to give it back to him tomorrow.  
Kyle..._

"Hullo?" it was Gregory.

"Yes, 'ello, eet's ze Mole," he said, quickly and quietly.

"Mole!" Gregory said breathlessly. "How did it go? Oh, thank you for your time, I knew I could depend on you."

The Mole's head started to throb. "Gregory...eet didn't go so well..."

"Oh no...what are you talking about?" Gregory asked edgily.

"I was caught."

"Bugger it! What happened!"

"I penetrated ze perimeter, but zese guys-zey must've tasered me or somezing-" he ran his fingers through his unkempt brown hair- "because I don't 'ave any bumps on my 'ead or anyzing-"

"Good lord, Mole, are you all right?"

"I've been worse," he said laconically. _Is that even true?_

"Well, what in God's name happened then?"

The Mole regarded the cigarette which he held, European-style, between his fingers. His head was hurting worse.

"I got caught, I got knocked out some'ow--like I said, zey must've used a taser, I'm pretty sure zey didn't 'it me over ze 'ead with my shovel or anyzing--I mean, I didn't see what zey did to me, eet must've happened from behind. I got tied up, I woke up in some sort of detention cell-" he stopped upon hearing Gregory's sharp intake of breath, which came out as a harsh whispery sound over the phone lines. "...and zey sent zis goon in to question me. He asked me who sent me-"

"You–you didn't tell him, did you?" Gregory asked, the panic obvious in his voice. 

"No, I did not!" growled the Mole. It was a lot easier to say now that he was out of that concrete room. "I would never betray my compatriots!" He was mocking Gregory affectionately, and Gregory knew it.

"Of course not...I was just verifying my surmise, that's all."

"Of course," the Mole echoed gruffly.

"Mole...are you quite sure you're all right? Caught– I– what happened next?" Then, without waiting for a reply: "Oh dear God, Mole...if something had happened to you, I would never forgive myself. You do know that, don't you?"

The Mole grunted.

"Well, how the blazes did you get out of it?" Gregory asked, stunned and relieved.

"You know, zat's ze zing. I don't know if I _would_ 'ave gotten out of eet, except...Gregory, _Kyle_–"

"What!" yelled Gregory, his London accent stronger in his upset state. "But he swore to me that he wouldn't go if I told him! He said...but...wait...he helped you?"

"Yes. 'e came bursting in and knocked ze guy out wiz my shovel, and I tunnelled out. By ze way, zanks for telling 'im ze location, I owe you one."

"Yeah...yeah..." Gregory muttered, sounding disconcerted. The Mole took advantage of the silence  
to smoke uninterrupted.

"So you just tunnelled out?"

"Yeah, ze door wasn't locked, but I wasn't taking any chances."

"You're...you're amazing, Mole. I've never met anyone like you."

"Ah, you flattair me," the Mole said, and shook his head, despite the fact that Gregory couldn't see him.

"And you're certain you're all right?"

"_Yes_," the Mole said vehemently.

"Just for a moment, don't be tough! Did they hurt you at all?"

The Mole sighed. "Sheet. Okay, fine. 'e punched me, okay! Ze goon punched me and I got a nosebleed! Zat's all! Not a big deal!"

"Bloody fucking hell!" Gregory cursed.

"I can do zis, Gregory! I just need some backup! I mean, zey've got tasers–"

"_Backup?_ You're the best there is! Who am I going to use for backup? I'd only mess you up somehow, I'm not trained, this isn't my area of expertise-"

"I'm going to see zis through! Look, I'm not...I'm not in ze mood right now..."

"I don't want you to get hurt, it isn't worth it, this is one of those times when there aren't actually innocent lives at stake...well, in a sense, yes, but..." he trailed off. "Damn it all, Mole, I don't want you to get hurt!"

_Like Kyle! 'I don't want you to die!', he said...why does everyone care about me all of a sudden? Well, Gregory was pretty freaked when he found out I'd actually been dead for a while...but that was a long time ago..  
.  
_"Are you there?" Gregory asked.

"Yes..." he scratched his head, toying with a fluffy clump of hair. He pushed down; it popped up. He did it again.

"Christophe! Who are you talking to!" a shrill voice said thickly.

"Oh sheet, oh sheet..." the Mole muttered.

"What is it?" Gregory asked.

"CHRISTOPHE!" There came a banging on the door.

"What's that noise?" said Gregory.

"My muzzer banging on ze door." _In a drunken rage..._thought the Mole, but he didn't tell Gregory that. Nobody knew; he kept the secret as well as his mother did. He didn't think he could bear the humiliation. With a sympathetic presence on the other end of the line, though, he couldn't hold back from saying something: "We 'ad a fight."

"What-"

"CHRISTOPHE, GET OUT HERE!" The sound of glass shattering.

"Mother of fucking God-" the Mole snarled. He stubbed the cigarette out quickly, feeling bereft.

"What-"

"I 'ave to go-"

"No Mole, don't-"

"I'll see you tomorrow-"

"Mole-"

"_À plute!_"

"All right, take care of yourself."

The Mole pressed the off button and picked his shovel up off the floor. "Coming, coming! Patience is a  
motherfucking virtue!" He doubted that she'd appreciate expletive-laden irony in the state she was in, though. He braced himself and unlatched the door.

Mirielle Delorne stood there,limply holding the smashed bottle and swaying gently. "I'm not finished with you!" she yelled.

The Mole looked from her hand to the carpet and brandished the shovel. There was a multitude of glass shards on the floor. She took a swing at him but he blocked it easily with his shovel. She gave a cry of pain as her hand smacked the blade. He growled, "Give me the fucking bottle!" and pried it sharply away. Without her weapon she seemed to deflate, and he pulled her to the door of her room. "Go to bed, Mother." He retreated to his room, and was relieved to find she didn't follow him. He stumbled over to his bed and was asleep before his head hit the pillow.  
--  
The Mole was late to school that day. He lived on the edge of town, and the bus stop was out of his way. South Park High was closer to his neighborhood than the local elementary school, which he had not attended. In spite of the laws mandating school attendance, he had fallen through the cracks in his  
younger years in South Park. As soon as he was old enough, he'd registered at the public high school to  
get away from his mother. Thanks to his years in the French primary school system before he'd come to South Park, he'd known just enough to make it through his high school classes without arousing any suspicion due to his poor performance. The teachers didn't have time  
to deal with his kind, anyway.

He was still wearing his clothes from yesterday. There had been no time to change, none at all. He'd forgotten to set his watch alarm, but miraculously, his internal clock had woken him up. Then he had  
hurried out, taking no chances in case his mother's hangover proved inflammatory rather than debilitating.  
He'd slogged through the morning, his first three classes bereft of Kyle or Gregory. Kids had thrown  
disgusted glances at his soiled and wrinkled shirt, and their eyes had shown traces of fear when they  
lingered on his face. The Mole had tried to scrub any dried blood or dirt off of his face in the bathroom at school, but some of it must not have come off.

Finally, it was English.

The Mole found a seat in the corner of the room, trusting that Kyle would find him. He set his copy of  
Les Misérables upon the desk. He would have preferred to read it in the original French; the English prose was dense and cold to him. He admired the character of Enjolras very much.

He looked up every time someone entered the room. Red. Clyde. Sky. Token.  
Kyle. A patch of orange, brighter than the fruit for which the color had been named, caught his eye; it was juxtaposed with soft green. He inadvertently cracked a smile–how long had it been, months?–and watched as Kyle glanced around until their eyes met.

"Mole!" Kyle said in his sweet voice, as he dropped his bag and slid into the desk smack next to him. Red Dickensen stared at them. Kyle didn't notice, but the Mole felt a hot prickle at  
that look. Did they have to ruin everything for him? Why did they have to–

"How are you?" Kyle smiled at him. A caring voice felt so good to the Mole's ears.

"I'm all right." _What a fucking lie._ He felt his heart fill with a bittersweet rush. How strange, all morning he'd been able to handle anything, but now with Kyle here he felt all his fortifications start to crumble down.

Kyle looked with a gentle probing gaze at the Mole's dirty clothes, at the dark circles under his eyes. The Mole felt as though Kyle could sense the malaise in his being.  
"Are you...are you really?" Kyle asked. "Why are you...what's wrong? Tell me..."

"Nothing's wrong! He's just antisocial!" Red's voice broke in scornfully. "I don't even know why you're wasting your time with him, he hates everybody."

The Mole looked down despairingly and clenched his fists.

Kyle stared at her. "Excuse me?" The Mole's gaze shot up to Kyle; the boy's tone  
signalled that he was getting wound up.

"What!" Red scoffed. "I'm just trying to help you out."

"Help me?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah? Well, you can go fuck yourself!" Kyle was pink-cheeked and trembling. The Mole found himself affected by the petulance on Kyle's face, written in his auburn eyebrows.

Red's mouth dropped open. "Jesus!" She threw the pair of them a disparaging glance and diverted her earthly attentions to a just-arrived friend.

The Mole turned a pair of sultry eyes on the strong-featured boy.

"Zat wasn't reely necessairy," he told Kyle quietly. He felt warm inside, a glow of...not gratitude, a  
milder feeling...tinged with discomfort. He felt weakened, exposed, yet protected. A paradox.

"But I wanted to. I can't believe they treat you like this."

The Mole shrugged bitterly and fiddled with his gloves.

"Did you get home all right?" Kyle asked softly.

"Yes...did you?"

"Well, my mother was pretty pissed, but I don't care."

_My mother was pissed, too...in more ways than one...wait...that pun only works in English, and  
British English at that...must be picking shit up from Gregory or something...think in French! Poutain de merde!_  
He gripped his head tightly in his hands, tugging at his hair until it hurt.

"Dude! What's wrong?" Kyle gripped the Mole's shoulder and looked wildly into his eyes.

The room being almost full now, Kyle and the Mole were safe from prying eyes, surrounded completely by self-engaged classmates.

"Nuzzing, nuzzing!...I'm just not feeling vairy good..." the Mole said in a strained voice.

"Maybe you should go to the nurse or something. I'll go with you," Kyle said.

"No! I'm okay...class is about to start, anyway." The Mole looked at Kyle and smiled weakly but genuinely.

"All right, let's go over our study questions!" said the teacher.

They exchanged glances, and the Mole felt that this might not be such a bad day after all.

The bell rang, and Kyle stretched. He touched his hand to the Mole's shoulder. "Lunchtime! Let's go!" He smiled long-sufferingly. "Finally, eh?"

The Mole looked at him awkwardly and self-consciously pressed the sore spot on his left cheekbone.

"Wait, I've never seen you at lunch," said Kyle. "Don't you go?"

"No," the Mole said. "I go outside and smoke at lunch. I 'ave to."

"So you don't have a lunch?"

"No."

Kyle looked concerned for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders and said sparklingly, "Well, you can have some of mine then!"

"But I 'ave to smoke." He twitched. "Eet's 'ard enough to get trough ze day wizout smoking during  
class."

Kyle bit his lip. "Come eat with me for a few minutes? Please?"

"Okay, very well." He picked up his books. "I must drop these off, though."

"Sure." Kyle swung his bag over his shoulder and followed him out. The Mole wondered for a moment why Kyle always carried his bag, even when it was inconvenient for him to do so. After the Mole dumped his books, they made their way to the cafeteria and elbowed through the thronging children. "Over here," Kyle called. They sat at an empty table and settled themselves.

Kyle peered inside his sack lunch and grimaced. "The food here sucks. I miss Chef," he said, oblivious to the fact that the Mole had never attended South Park Elementary. "Salami AGAIN. Ugh. Kosher beef salami is gross. I had the other kind at Stan's house and it was better. I don't think God will hate me if I eat pork, honestly." Shaking his head, he offered half of the sandwich to the Mole. "Heh, I know I said it was gross, but you've got to eat something. Chips?" He held up a bag of Manischewitz kosher potato chips.

The Mole didn't feel very hungry, but he smiled weakly and took a bite out of the sandwich as Kyle chattered at him. The sound of the lunch room seemed oddly dampened from within the bubble he was sharing with Kyle. He was so tired. He watched Kyle neatly spread all of his lunch items out on the table, and suddenly realized that Kyle wasn't eating anything yet. Just as he was about to ask, Kyle pulled a small black pack out of his backpack and opened it up. He squirted some antibacterial soap onto his hands and took out a vial containing a clear liquid and opened it before setting it on the table. Then, he withdrew a syringe and a hypodermic needle and deftly joined them. He swabbed the needle and the the rim of the open vial, then pressed down on the plunger and sucked up the liquid. Without a word heunzipped his jacket, pulled up his t-shirt and injected himself in the side of his abdomen.

"What...what are you _doing?_" The Mole asked dumbfoundedly, wincing. Kyle looked up with a shock and pulled out the needle. "Oh my God! It's such a routine, I forgot you didn't know- I'm diabetic." He paused, then continued matter-of-factly, "I have to take insulin ten minutes before eating. Well, with this insulin anyway, it varies." He spoke as he filed the items away. "Haha, I forget how it looks watching someone take insulin when you're not used to it." The Mole nodded. "You know about diabetes, right?"

"Yeah. I mean, I've heard of it." He'd seen someone go into diabetic shock when he was five, and the teachers at his French primary school had had to explain away the magical thinking surrounding the frightening incident. Right now, the Mole was thinking of how fragile Kyle must be underneath his hardy exterior. What if the strenuous activities of the previous evening had upset his blood sugar, or something?

Kyle leaned forward conspiratorially. "I actually have one of Cartman's kidneys."

The Mole choked on the last of the sandwich. "Sheet!"

"Ah, speak of the devil," Kyle said airily. The Mole turned around and saw Eric Cartman and Stan Marsh standing nearby."

"Hey dude," Stan said to Kyle over the Mole's head. "Spare a seat?"

"Yeah, okay," Kyle nodded and kicked out one of the chairs.Cartman took a different chair, and the Mole could swear he heard it creak. Stan glanced at the Mole, then looked at him again more deeply. "Hey- it's _you!_" he said, and narrowed his deep blue eyes. "What are _you_ doing here?" The Mole felt uncomfortable; those lapis lazuli eyes were sizing him up. _Wait, this guy is Kyle's friend, he was in La Resistance...you had no qualms about grabbing him and giving him a good shake when the temper overtook you..._ He returned the glance stonily.

Stan looked at Kyle with a hint of dismay, and forced a smile. "How about Algebra, huh? Miss Diller is such a bitch!" He delved into what was obviously a morning's shared experience between him and Kyle that had not involved the Mole. The Mole scowled as he heard Kyle's euphonious laugh and prodded the tender spot on his cheekbone again. Was it swelling? That was where his mother had hit him, wasn't it? He felt a nebulous cloud of anger bubble in his chest.

Cartman was stuffing his sandwich into his mouth. He took a breath and huffed, "Hey, you're that British dude from that thing! I saw you in class but I didn't know it was you! Haha, I thought you were dead!" He tore open into a package of Snacky Cakes.

Kyle slammed his fist down on the table. "You killed him, you stupid fuck! He told you to shut off the alarms!"

"Dude, calm down!" Stan said forcefully. "Why the hell are you so worked up over-"

The Mole didn't say anything. Somehow the urge to rail at the world was gone. He was so fucking tired.

"Yeah, shut your pie-hole, Jew! Why is this British shit even sitting at our table?" Cartman spat back. "Are you two going _out_ or something?" He gave a hearty snigger.

Kyle tugged off his hat and raked his hand through a mane of corkscrew curls. They hung lankly around his face, framing it in its fervid glow.  
"_Yes,_" he declared, thrusting his jaw forward vehemently. "Chew on THAT, Cartman." He reached across the table and grasped the Mole's hand. The Mole froze and looked from one to the other. Cartman was frozen in mid-chew, his mouth open slightly; Stan was like a deer caught in headlights, gasping for breath. Kyle squeezed the Mole's hand and gave him a loving smile. The Mole felt the warmth.

Cartman came unfrozen with a spasmodic flail. "So you two are _fags?_ Jew-boy and I don't even remember your name, you're gay assholes?" He laughed uncontrollably.

"Fuck you Cartman!" Kyle yelled, flipping him off.

"Dude..." Stan said slowly, "You're..._gay?_"

"Yeah, I guess so," said Kyle with a nervous laugh. "You...you don't have a problem with that, do you?" His grip on the Mole's hand loosened slightly. "I don't see any reason for homophobia in my friends, after all it's nothing new in this place, Tweek and Craig have been going out, and Kenny's bi..."

"No," Stan said, still slow. "No, it's just...I..."

"Kyle is a faggot, Kyle is a faggot," Cartman chanted. "Oh shut the fuck up Cartman, you probably are too," Kyle said.

Stan looked icily at the Mole, who was wide-eyed and awkward. "And you're gay too?"

"I..." The Mole cast a glance at his and Kyle's entwined hands.

"I love him, Stan," Kyle said zealously.

_Am I gay?_ The Mole thought in consternation. Did he love Kyle or not? He tried to think. When did he feel love? When did he want a girl? When did he want a boy? He thought he'd felt it before, but he couldn't think...he just couldn't remember...anger. Just...anger. He dug into the kosher potato chips as Kyle's friends tried to make sense of it all.


End file.
